You asked of our location.
You assumed we had control.
With fear and trepidation,
we stepped into this role.
We did everything we could.
When reason failed, we turned to hope.
When overwhelmed, confused we stood.
We did nothing more than cope.
We had no map to chart a course.
We too were badly lost.
With every rescue came remorse.
With every salvage came a cost.
. If it’s comforting to know… we were there,
. confused and bewildered … in poor repair.
© Tim Grace, 30 June 2011
To the reader: In the midst of emotional turmoil family relationships are tested. As chaos takes hold and threatens to undermine every sinew of collective strength we turn to old habits; tried and tested remedies. Then, when the family’s kit-bag is empty, we resort to new tricks; an escalation of counselling. In reality, some complications defy therapy… enter resilience: cope and hope; be there when it counts.
To the poet: Struggle. Some poems behave like a troublesome child. Why won’t this one perform like all the rest? How could this one be so different? Why can’t this one just conform? If only this one would do as it’s told we’d all be happy? Not all poems right themselves; nor do they write themselves.